


And I Knew there was No Turning Back

by DwarvenBeardSpores



Category: Rusty Quill Gaming (Podcast), The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Episode 137: Lightning Round, Gen, Horror, Introspection, Lightning - Freeform, Storms, heights, ish
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-11
Updated: 2019-12-11
Packaged: 2021-02-26 00:15:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 721
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21754363
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DwarvenBeardSpores/pseuds/DwarvenBeardSpores
Summary: In between bolts of lightning, Zolf encounters the Vast.
Comments: 10
Kudos: 49





	And I Knew there was No Turning Back

**Author's Note:**

> A thought that came to me as I was blearily waking up, that, after like 3 rewrites, turned into this. And now, _now_ I’m excited to share, because there's nothing like not wanting to do final projects that gets the old creative juices flowing.
> 
> I’m certainly not the first one to say that Zolf has ties to the Vast, but it sure is a fun concept to play with. 
> 
> Title from “Thunderstruck” because hell yeah.

Zolf stabs his glaive through the cable and thinks _I never really went anywhere, did I?_

He’s miles above the sea, and before today he’d never been hit by lightning, but his heart swoops in his chest in a way that feels nauseatingly familiar. 

This is not Poseidon. 

It’s not Zeus either. Can’t be. It’s too familiar. 

Electricity arcs across his body. Zolf burns and freezes and he thinks, _I deserve this._ Thinks, _I am this._

He falls backwards, and the rope, tied so carefully, falls with him. He _knows_ he did the knots right. He _knows,_ but his lifeline is completely slack. 

He is falling and there is nothing to catch him. 

He is falling and for a moment he is nothing more than part of the storm. For a moment there is no other world than this. 

The glaive is still in his hand. Once, he'd pitched his trident into the sea in a show of faith or desperation, a request for forgiveness. Today, he clutches tighter between burned fingers. He does not serve Poseidon anymore. Maybe he never had. 

Maybe Poseidon’s no more in charge of the sea than Zolf is. Maybe the both of them serve this same endless tempest that is not a god and never was. 

Or maybe that’s a thought just setting him up for a drowning. 

All Zolf knows for certain is that severing his ties with Poseidon did nothing. That someday, still, he will disappear into a storm in which sea and sky are indistinguishable, in which there will be no land, and from where he will never return. 

Bad luck for the mission, then. 

He is falling and then, impossibly, the rope goes taught. The remains of his coat flop wetly, but he doesn’t swing. Doesn’t hit the side of the lighthouse. Can’t even see it in all the rain. 

He doesn’t look down, but he knows there’s nothing below him in any way that matters. 

He can’t feel the rain anymore. Maybe it was the lightning frying his nerves. Maybe he’s just too damp to notice. 

He doesn’t want this. He never asked for this the way he asked for Poseidon's guidance. There’s nothing tying him to the storm like gratitude or obligation or worship. Zolf just knows there's something there, feels the massive hand of the tempest holding his heart, open-palmed and indifferent, as he quivers with electricity. Someday that hand will close and he’ll be gone. 

But not today. 

Zolf blinks bright spots out of his eyes and shakes his arms back into use. He might be hanging in the middle of something impossible, but he’s got this rope, and this rope’s got to lead somewhere. His arms ache as he hauls himself back to the lightning rod, but that’s good. Reminds him he has a body. Reminds him that whatever he’s doing, it’s working. It matters. 

He makes it, somehow, no idea how, and grips tight to the ladder, just as tight as he’s still gripping his weapon. It’s solid. But, much as he’d like to, he’s got no time to dwell on that, so he fumbles his way numbly back to the maintenance hatch. 

He knows the lightning rod is working with the storm, one drawing power from the other. Doesn’t know which way that exchange goes, doesn't care. He’s not here to do either of them any favors. 

He plunges the glaive again and feels the cable _snap,_ even as another bolt of lightning courses through him. Even as his bones begin to shake out of their sockets to join the sky. 

“Hey!” he manages, his words lost immediately in the wind. _“Piss off.”_

His fingers are numb as he hauls himself back down. Everything is numb except where it hurts, and he’s not sure anymore he can tell the difference between the two. 

The storm lets him go. Maybe it doesn’t notice him leaving. 

The lighthouse is solid, sheltered, warm, and Zolf plants himself on the grate and sways like the wind. 

He’s inside. Azu is already fussing over him, Cel gushing about lightning, Hamid fretting by the door. 

Rain pounds against the lighthouse the same way Zolf’s blood pounds against his skin. 

_So,_ he thinks, even as Azu’s healing sinks into his body like an anchor. _S_ _till haven’t gone anywhere, have I?_

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! I’d love to hear what you thought. 
> 
> You can also find me on tumblr as dwarven-beard-spores, twitter as @beardspores, and dreamwidth as DwarvenBeardSpores.


End file.
